Originally Published in Third Coast, Winter 2022

Lookout Tower, Fort Ord

Two miles east of the sea, oaks
crouch like shrub gods, the wind
combs their leaves and what’s left
of last spring’s rattlesnake grass.
Across the road barb wire rolls, soon
the gale will yank at tin signs warning
of lost explosives, long buried,
waiting. This tower weeps morning
fog, sheds each day in thick patches
of faded, peeling butter yellow.
Climb to the top, look west, watch
the sea smoke. Up there you’re close enough,
smell the fire cooling in the barn 
swallow tail feathers as they cub-scout-
you’re-out south. Lean out, listen. Small 
hands carved names deep into these walls.
Cambra was here, Rhiles and Stalrer 
too. The rip of these lines tell
miracle, kids headed home that night 
with all their fingers still
attached. Estella loved Eve here. 
And one, two characters rechristened 
themselves Ninja and Hoot. There 
are no spent fireworks, or pair of rusted 
red tennies jitterbugging the air 
from the telephone wire. No fluttering
of blue Black Jack chewing
gum wrappers, fennel feather tickle,
rain bloated dog-ends. There are 
ditched jimmy foils, busted
brown bottles, home sick, long lost 
ice plant patches lit red like armies
of small fires. The coyote
brush is pouting soft, firm
flower pistols. Out
Parker Flats Road the wind’s
got a slap of salt in it, thick
​as tears in the throat.